About Living
by onlyacoffee
Summary: In which Jehan wonders if he should listen to Courfeyrac, and Feuilly decides to listen to Jehan. Because, after all, isn't time, years and age only a human construction?


"Sometimes, I do wonder," Prouvaire exclaims, looking up at the ceiling of the Musain, sighing. "Perhaps Courfeyrac is right, after all."

Feuilly, sitting besides him, raises an eyebrow in question. Jehan only sighs again, dramatically, and Feuilly finishes the last of his glass, settling it on the table in front of him.

"Sometimes he is, yes," he nods. "But in this case, what do you mean?"

"Well, I suppose, this," the poet, nearly standing up, waves his arms around, nearly hitting his friend on the nose. Feuilly grimaces and gently puts a hand on Jehan's shoulder, urging him to sit down. Jehan smiles sheepishly at him.

"Oh, sorry," he says, smiling, a blush rising to his pale cheeks. "But yes, I mean this!" This time, the wave is more subdued in its movement, although no less expressive.

"The café?" asks Feuilly, amused. "What's wrong with it – or is it the company, you mean?"

"Sometimes it can be," Jehan agrees. (Behind them, Bahorel yells and Courfeyrac falls to the floor dramatically. Feuilly doesn't even borther to ask.)

Jehan fingers the edge of his cup, growing thoughtful. "But not tonight, no. Although it does have to do with what Courfeyrac was saying."

"Which is…?" Feuilly can't keep the smile from his face at Jehan's expression, the shy smile on his flushed face, his bright eyes.

"That I should live."

At this, Feuilly bursts out laughing. "Live? My friend, what have you been doing all this time, if not living?"

Jehan looks almost embarrassed. It is not an unusual look for him - except in company. He is still smiling, however, an honest and cheerful smile, and his posture is relaxed.

"I mean experience, Feuilly," he explains. "Travels, maybe. Women. Children, even, if God ever decides that they should exist for me." He scratches the back of his head, messing with the long tresses. He flips them over his shoulders, fingers playing with the tips. "I am not sure, still. I have never thought about it, really, but what if I really am missing this kind of love?"

"Ah," Feuilly grabs the bottle – already more than half empty, but the sun has barely set. He refills both of their glasses.

"Well, you still have time," he says quietly after a moment. "And the means to do so. You're young, Prouvaire, and this you call living – but it doesn't have to be, if you don't wish to."

"As I said, I am not sure," Jehan still looks pensive, but takes the refilled glass before him and takes a sip. The red wine stains his lips, and he licks then before continuing. "I am perfectly content with what I am, you know this. But… maybe."

Feuilly shakes his head.

"Don't worry, Jehan," he says, attempting to keep his tone carefree. His head is heavy, and he feels the presence of a weight on his heart. "You are still young, aren't you? Yet, if this is what you believe life should be, then you probably have lived more than me already."

If his smile is a little strained, well, he hopes the other is already too tipsy to notice – but Jehan is Jehan, and it's his turn to put a hand on Feuilly's shoulder, his smile kind and patient.

"So are you," he says. "You should not talk like this, not when you're not much older than I am."

Feuilly doesn't reply – it is easier to look away. He is suddenly overcome by the need to sleep, or lie down, at the very least, but he doesn't trust himself to stand up and say goodnight. It might be the wine, he thinks.

"Are you, though?" Prouvaire insists. "Now that I think about it… I do not know your age, my friend."

Feuilly laughs quietly, mirthlessly. His own voice feels foreign to his ears, and he winces.

"Then that makes to of us, then." He is not the kind to think back on his own life with regret; perhaps it's the evening, Prouvaire's company, his soft voice and gentle eyes. Or definitely the wine, after all – he hasn't eaten much and has worked long hours – it gets harder to drink and talk, in these circumstances. Or perhaps this has been bothering him for longer than he would like to admit, since he met these students and their frank voices, since he got used to their ways, to their friendship.

Jehan looks worried, and a little sad; Feuilly immediately regrets opening his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so unkind to you -"

But Prouvaire pays no mind.

"What about your birthday, then?" he asks, and Feuilly shakes his head.

The other's hand on his shoulder tightens. Feuilly wants to start apologizing again, but the poet cuts him off.

He looks up, and Jehan is smiling at him. His eyes are blue and warm, and Feuilly finds himself smiling too.

"It doesn't matter, then," Jehan says. "Isn't time and age a human construction? It is entirely subjective to what our lives mean to us."

"I… suppose so," Feuilly says, hesitant. But Jehan grins.

"We can make it today!"

"Pardon?"

"Your birthday, Feuilly. Let's make it today!"

Jehan's enthusiasm is infectious, and Feuilly laughs – honestly, this time, loudly.

"Alright," he says brightly. "Today, then!"

Jehan's arm wraps around his shoulder and kisses his cheek.

"Joyeux anniversaire, my friend! How old are you?"

Feuilly has to think about it for a moment. His bones and joints ache, and he knows there are lines around his eyes, but he does remember playing, remembers feeling young and invincible. Jehan is right, he believes, he cannot be much older, although really, how would he know? Still, he tries.

"I suppose I am… 24 years old?" he attempts. It sounds right to him – and it seems like it does to Jehan, too.

"You suppose?" Jehan shakes his head, but he is only teasing. Feuilly grins, pinches his friend's shoulder.

"No, I am fairly sure."

Jehan smiles proudly. "This is good, then! Let's tell everyone, and toast – because today is your day, and as of this day, May the 15th of the year 1832, you are 24 years old! And next year," he continues, "Next year we will celebrate properly again, and every year after, until we are both old and gray!"

It might be the wine, or the company, but Feuilly thinks he can feel tears in his eyes at this – and so he and Jehan toast to it.


End file.
